Coming Outta My Cage (And I've Been Doing Just Fine)
by Abi2
Summary: There had never been a place for him in John's comfortable future of wife-children-countryside, but it hurt to see it evolve even as their friendship dissolved. Maybe not dissolved. Diluted? Yes, more a dilution. What had once been a strong bond of fondness was now something tense and fragile, held together only by Sherlock's refusal to leave.


Let me go… I just can't look, it's killing me and taking control… But it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me: Open up my eager eyes… - "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers

* * *

Every time Sherlock stole a glance from under his too long curls, they were still there. Sitting on the couch arm in arm, telly on low as they inched ever closer. As if they weren't draped over one another enough. He fought a sigh, an all too emotional response to the situation, and went back to staring at nothing through his microscope.

He'd run out of slides hours ago, but he was loathe to break the comfortable air of the lovers in the living room. John was still tense around Sherlock, despite him having been back for just over three months. Sherlock had known that there would be a, perhaps difficult, period of readjustment, but this was more than ridiculous. Here he was, held in place by sentimentality. There had never been a place for him in John's comfortable future of wife-children-countryside, but it hurt to see it evolve even as their friendship dissolved. Maybe not dissolved. Diluted? Yes, more a dilution. What had once been a strong bond of fondness was now something tense and fragile, held together only by Sherlock's refusal to leave what was still, to him at least, rightfully his home. The fact that it was now only a third his, with himself relegated to the sidelines, he didn't allow to affect him.

Even when it did. It was a good thing, Sherlock told himself over and over. Sherlock had died, had fought and killed and done so much to keep the man on the couch breathing. To let him love the brainless woman next to him and to let John have the life he deserved instead of a life of danger and drama.

There was a deep pang in his chest, like a fist grabbing his heart, making it stutter for a moment. His eyes closed as he breathed through it, quiet, desperate gulps of air. What he'd done for love was done for a love that wasn't returned, would never be returned.

It had been worth it. No matter how much Sherlock wanted to question that statement, to vivisect it.

Sherlock almost choked as a realization hit him. Blindsided him after three years and three months and a lifetime. Moriarty, even in death, had won. He hadn't burnt the heart from Sherlock, not quite. But he'd successfully removed it. Left it bleeding and raw and fragile as a newborn's.

"Sherlock, you alright?" John's voice floated over the sounds of the television, broke through the rising tide of emotions. Cold water across a flaming victim. It hurt. It _hurt_. Sherlock nodded, steadied his breathing. Looked up to see John and Mary looking over the back of the couch at him. He wanted it to be with kindness. With care. All he saw, all he could let himself see, was the faint lines of tension, their faces too close together and no compassion, only curiosity. He cleared his throat.

"Fumes, John." He managed.

"Nothing toxic I hope?" A raised eyebrow. No hint of a smirk, or even reprimand. Bland. Disinterested. A playact of their old ways. Sherlock swallowed again. Waved a hand at the couple on the couch in dismissal as he rose to his feet. The mood was broken and he should leave.

"No, nothing toxic. Go back to your program."

Sherlock strode off to his room, ignoring their hushed conversation behind him. He needed a cigarette. He needed a packet full of them. He tried not to think about what he wanted most, a seven percent solution. Exchanging his dressing gown for a suit jacket, Sherlock made a cursory glance at his reflection. A faint scar, two inches long stretching from under his right ear to just past his carotid, caught his eye. The knife had been sharp, the assassin had almost gotten him. He fingered the scar, wondered if he'd died in that hell hole in Argentina. Was this some hellish dying nightmare he'd conjured?

His hand dropped. Even if it was, it was time to make a move. To the other side, be it of London or of Life. He huffed a laugh. More sentiment. He was getting soppy.

He could feel the edges of a black mood coming on, and in that moment he wondered if he ought to just give up on this. Give up on Baker Street and John and find someplace else. Somewhere where the fledgling heart he'd found could be bricked back up and left to die without this pain. At first the pain had been punishment, his deserved treatment for leaving. Now, though, it was cruel. Even to the supposed sociopath it was cruel.

Grabbing his scarf, he breezed past the couch and grabbed his coat— a new one, as the old Belstaff had been trashed after his fall. As he threaded his arms through the sleeves, he saw Mary and John parting hastily, mouths and cheeks a bit pink. Mary's hand was still on John's chest.

The pained thump of Sherlock's heart against his ribcage felt as if it could knock the wind from him. As though without his ribs, his heart would have jumped, dove as Sherlock himself had.

He twisted to the door, determined not to let his composure shatter before he'd made it to a safe enough place. A place far, far away from prying eyes and nosy brothers.

"Going out, Sherlock?" John's voice was steady, but Sherlock didn't turn around.

"Obviously, John." There was no venom, no sarcasm. Even to his ears it fell flat.

"Case?"

Sherlock fancied the upward lilt at the end was almost a hint of concern.

"Don't wait up." Almost breathless.

"Sherlock—"

"John. Mary." Sherlock tried, he honestly did, not to turn his head, to meet John's gaze one last time.

"Alright Sherlock. See you tomorrow then?"

Sherlock heard the question, even as his eyes set about taking in every detail of the moment. John's hand on Mary's knee, just under her skirt. Her hand on John's chest, still, possessive. He looked to John's face, met his gaze and hoped that John, as usual, would fail to see what was so obvious to everyone else.

Sherlock hummed a non-response and left, careful not to slam the door, lest Mrs. Hudson come out. He didn't think that he could handle seeing her just now. Down the seventeen steps, each footfall heavier than the last. At the door he paused, forehead against the dark wood. He breathed in deep, the smell of lemon cookies baking, the faint hint of John's cologne. He felt something shatter, something fragile and precious and so very, very irreplaceable.

He'd thought he could do it. Could build up his life again. His lungs hitched on a breath, he stifled the urge to laugh, to sob, to scream and throw a fit about the utter unfairness of it all. This was no time for his usual theatrics. They would only make things worse. The door to 221B opened and Sherlock took another breath, opening the door and stepping through before John could say anything more. He turned on his heel and walked fast past the shops, not stopping even for the shout behind him.

"Sherlock, you left your phone!"

He could get another. Mycroft would know the number within the day anyways. Lestrade was still angry and only sent the occasional texted question. John never replied to Sherlock's texts.

Several streets later, Sherlock heard the keys to 221B jingle in his pocket. He slipped a hand inside, curled his fingers around the cold metal of them. There was a bin on the corner and as he approached it, he slowed, stopped. He took the keys out of his pocket and stared at the pair of them, new and shining in his palm. He stood in uncharacteristic stillness as he debated, debated. The sound of the CCTV on the building turning his way pulled him from the reverie and he turned his palm to the side. Watched the keys tumble into the garbage. They lay, shining amongst the cigarette butts and food wrappers.

Deed done, Sherlock turned away and let his feet guide him to the other side of London. Tonight he'd reconnect with the homeless network, build up his eyes and ears once more. There were changes in London he needed to chart, new buildings and street works. He could keep busy enough, for now, to forget about John Watson.

John would be fine.

Sherlock would be fine. His heart, after all, lay on the entryway floor to be trod over by those he had loved, saved. They would go on. He had proof. It was his turn now, to go on. He'd remade himself enough times across the years that this would be no different. The hollowness where his fledgeling heart once beat would fill over time. Solidify and in that he would be safe. Alone.


End file.
